


The Cop and the Kid

by Pickwick12



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Father Figures, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27439882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pickwick12/pseuds/Pickwick12
Summary: Explores the complex father-son relationship of Gil Arroyo and Malcolm Bright. Rated T to be safe for potential mentions of anything in the show.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

"Were you scared, Malcolm?" Officer Arroyo hands him a hotdog. His mother never lets him eat hotdogs, but Gil loves street food. And she's willing to turn a blind eye when Malcolm is with the cop.

"No, I wasn't afraid." It's the evening after Malcolm's—what did they call it?—his deposition. The evening after he'd gone into a room and had a lady from his father's attorney's office and a man from the state of New York ask him questions about his father, lots of them, while a videographer got it all on video.

"You had a children's advocate with you," Gil says. "That's good."

"I wouldn't have been scared anyway," Malcolm answers, getting into the passenger's seat of Gil's squad car. "The lawyer lady was scared, not me."

"What do you mean, kid?" Gil asks, getting into the driver's side and starting on his own hotdog.

"She had to be there because she works for my dad's lawyer, but she's scared of my dad, and she didn't want to do it."

"How did you figure that, Malcolm?" the cop asks, reaching over to wipe ketchup from the corner of the boy's mouth. "And try not to get condiments on the car."

"Okay," Malcolm answers, obediently crumpling up his garbage and putting it neatly into Gil's designated garbage bag. "I don't know why I knew that. I just did."

"That's okay," Gil answers calmly, "but I'd love to know if you can think of any way to explain it to me. No rush." He finishes his food and disposes of his trash, then drives away from the parking space next to the mini mart. Malcolm watches everything they pass, wondering who is inside each building and what secrets each house might hold.

The boy feels better. He always feels better when he's with Gil. Better than—well, better than all the other times. He knows the cop won't pressure him to talk if he doesn't want to. Gil never pressures him.

"She was blinking a lot, and she looked away when she mentioned the Surgeon," Malcolm finally answers. It's been several minutes since either occupant of the car has said anything, and it's an unusually silent night for police work, so the cop's radio is mostly quiet except for the occasional update about a petty disturbance in some other part of the city that Gil doesn't need to answer.

"Go on," Gil encourages. "That's good observation." There's nothing judgmental or overeagerly complimentary in the policeman's tone. Just factual.

"She wasn't scared of me," Malcolm continues, starting to feel a little more excited as he realizes how much he remembers, how much he can explain. "But she said 'um' a lot, and when the state lawyer asked me the other questions, she always looked out the window, like she wanted to be somewhere else. I think she wants my dad to get convicted, even though she's not supposed to."

"And how did you feel about that?" Gil asked easily, turning down a side street and flashing his car lights to break up a burgeoning fight.

"I felt sorry for her," Malcolm observers after another period of silence. "I want him to get convicted, too."

"You know, it's okay if you ever feel differently than that. You don't have to tell me what you think I want to hear." Gil looks at the road, but his tone is warm.

Malcolm watches the cop for a long moment. He wonders exactly how Gil knew—how he could tell that that answer was the one time Malcolm hasn't been entirely truthful, because he's never quite sure how he feels about his dad's case. He wants to have that skill, to be able to tell when people are lying or scared, like the cop can. If you can read people like Gil does, he thinks, you can always protect yourself from them.

"Will you—teach me to know what people are thinking like you do, Officer Arroyo?" He finally asks.

Gil smiles. "You gotta start calling me Gil, kid. And you'll be a lot better at reading people than I am, some day. You've got a talent for it."

A talent. Malcolm smiles and goes quiet again, and the cop doesn't say anything either. It's a nice kind of silence, not the scary kind.

The next thing Malcolm knows, he's waking up. He realizes quickly from the sound of breathing, the smell of cologne, and the feeling of a warm hand against his back, that Arroyo is carrying him into the Whitly house. He stays perfectly still in Gil's arms because he's afraid that if he moves, the cop will put him down, and he wants to experience the soothing feeling of the embrace as long as he possibly can. He's too old to be carried much any more, but Gil doesn't care about that.

"He's asleep again? He always sleeps so much better when he's been with you, but I was afraid the deposition might make it worse," he hears his mother whisper.

"He's okay," Gil's voice softly rumbles back as he starts up the stairs. "It was a quiet night. Good for both of us."

"Thank you for taking him; you never have to," his mother answers.

"He's a great kid, Jessica." Gil takes him into his bedroom and gently lays him in bed, and Malcolm finally opens his eyes.

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," his mother says, bending down to kiss his forehead.

Gil smiles down at him. "Thanks for the ride along, partner." Malcolm nods and holds eye contact. Sometimes he looks for reasons to distrust Gil the way he's starting to distrust most people. He never finds any.

\---


	2. The Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think you know. You've been profiling me since you were ten. I'm not even that complicated."

"I could arrest you," Gil says, looking down at the kid, arms folded.

Malcolm doesn't meet his eyes. "I just wanted to try it. I wasn't partying or anything. I just wanted to see—if it would make me feel better." Gil knows. It's Jessica who made the call that her son was acting strangely, who'd found her prescription bottle emptier than it should be.

"Come with me," custodial touch on Malcolm's tricep, not painful, just secure. "You haven't ridden with me in ages."

Malcom is clearly ashamed, but Gil can feel the lack of stress in him. He feels safe. That part is good. Of course, that also means Gil can't bluff him. At fourteen, the kid can always tell if he's lying or not. He knows Gil was never going to bring him in.

Gil can't resist lightly touching the nape of the kid's neck as he ushers him into the car. Malcolm is still short, still small. "I'm worried about you, kid." Not like that's any kind of change from the norm.

Malcolm is silent as Gil starts the car and drives. Usually that's fine. Today the cop wants him to talk, to give him something to work with. "Is this about that school? You don't like it?" Nothing is ever that easy or simple with Malcolm. It would be a mercy if it was.

"Nope." Gil isn't surprised by the answer. "It's okay there. The teachers are nice. I get good grades. It's—better than school here."

The cop doesn't comment. There's plenty to unpack there, but it's not what he's after. He can't really fathom what the son of the Surgeon would go through in a local school, and Malcolm is at the top of his class at the prep school Jessica picked. It's not Gil's job to figure out if terms away and summers at home are the best way things could be done. He's not even sure there is a best way, when you're dealing with the family of Martin Whitly.

"So what is it?" He can't force the kid to talk, and he's annoyed at himself for letting his frustration bleed through. Patience is his greatest asset when he's dealing with Malcolm, and he prides himself on not losing his cool.

"I'm sorry, Gil."

"That's not—that's not what I asked," the cop answers. "You're trying to change the subject without making it obvious. I want to know why you did it, and then I'll figure out if I believe you regret it." He used to be able to win against the kid in mindgames. Now it feels like chess, and they're about equal in skill.

Malcolm looks over at him, and Gil feels the force of his serious blue eyes. "The meds from the psychiatrist don't make the girl go away." Checkmate. Malcolm still needs to please him too much not to answer.

The girl in the box. Four years. Four years they've been dealing with this. Gil figures Malcolm's subconscious must have amalgamated all the horrible things into this one dream. And nobody can crack it.

"I understand," he says, "but you're too smart to think that randomly trying some drug out of your mom's medicine cabinet is a good idea. What if it had interacted with something else you're on? What if it had made things worse? You could have been seriously hurt."

"Gil, I just wanted to sleep."

The cop suddenly has a host of mental images of all the things he would love to do to Martin Whitly. All the things the man deserves instead of a cushy room at a psychiatric hospital.

Gil leaves his left hand on the steering wheel and reaches over with his right and squeezes the kid's shoulder. "I'm sorry, kid. I know it's hard. But you can't do things like this."

"I know."

"You know I would fix it if I could." Gil stares hard at the road, trying not to get emotional.

"I know that," the kid echoes. "But I'm not even your kid. Why do you keep coming back? My dad's case is over."

Gil risks taking his eyes off the road for a split second and meets Malcolm's intense gaze. "I think you know. You've been profiling me since you were ten. I'm not even that complicated."

Malcolm finally smiles, and it's like the sun coming out after rain. "Thanks, Gil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge part of why I binged this show in a few days is this relationship. On the surface, it seems like it would be easy to write, but it's harder than it looks. Malcolm is a wildly complicated character, and Gil has issues of his own. At the same time, a show as turbulent as Prodigal Son 'shouldn't' feel as peaceful as it does, yet there's an undercurrent of security that comes through to the viewer. That undercurrent comes from the warmth that exists between these two characters, regardless of surface conflicts or even cataclysmic challenges. Malcolm and Gil go beyond boss-employee, mentor-mentee, or normal friendship. When a relationship is as unbreakable as theirs is, what we're seeing is family.


	3. Triggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gil starts the car, and Malcolm stares straight ahead, not wanting to answer, but knowing he will sooner or later. Call it a self-profile; he knows he can't ever ignore Gil."

"Hey, kid." Malcolm looks over at the sound of Gil's voice, not getting up from the park bench where he's been for the past hour. The cop sits down next to him, close but not touching, respecting his space.

"You okay?" He's known Gil for nearly six years, but Malcolm is still surprised by the man's patience. If there's ever a time he would expect the cop to be angry, it would be now. But Gil just looks at him, waiting for an answer.

"I'm fine now."

"Your therapist called your mom, and she's worried sick. I'm here to drive you home."

Malcolm nods and gets up to follow Gil to his car, shoulders slumped. "I didn't mean to." It's close to a whisper.

"We'll talk about it on the way," the cop answers, unlocking the car and motioning him in.

Malcolm has been trying to use the breathing techniques from his therapist to calm himself down for the past hour, but getting into Gil's car calms him more than any of them. As soon as the door closes beside him, he feels safer than he has all day.

"So, what happened?" Gil starts the car, and Malcolm stares straight ahead, not wanting to answer, but knowing he will sooner or later. Call it a self-profile; he knows he can't ever ignore Gil.

"Dr. Le Deux—in our session she started talking to me about going to see my dad."

"And that upset you?" Gil asks.

Malcolm squeezes his hand to keep it from moving when he doesn't want it to and speaks quickly. "I—um, I told her I still go almost every week when I'm on break. She wanted to talk about why, since the court doesn't make me go any more."

"It's okay, breathe," Gil says gently. "You're okay." Malcolm closes his eyes, centering on the feeling of the seatbelt around him and his fingernails digging into his hand.

"She—she said maybe it's because I still want to have a relationship with him, because I still love him." The words come out in a breathless rush.

"So you left," Gil supplies. "You didn't want to talk about it." Malcolm feels the anger he'd felt in the therapist's office rise back up inside him. Anger? He's not really sure what it is, other than that it feels like it might suffocate him.

"I had to get out of there, Gil."

Gil nods and says neutrally, "I'm not surprised. I know that's a tough subject for you. But you really scared Dr. Le Deux and your mom, disappearing like that."

"I'm sorry," Malcolm says sincerely, his breathing evening back out.

"I gotta say one thing," Gil answers, "and I don't care what your therapist or anybody else thinks." Malcom looks over at him, interest piqued.

"You know how I feel about you going to see your dad, but that aside, kid. It doesn't make you a bad person to want to see your father. And it doesn't make you like he is if you still love him. It just makes you a human being."

Malcolm breathes hard and closes his eyes, holding in tears. Somehow, he doesn't want to get away when Gil talks to him about things. He just desperately wants them to be true.

The cop doesn't say anything else, and Malcolm uses the remaining twenty minutes home to get his composure back, finally speaking again when they turn onto his street. "Gil, on a scale of 1-that time I drove her Porsche, how upset is my mom?"

"Dialed up to 11," Gil answers drily, "but I have a feeling she'll get over it quickly when she sees you in one piece." The cop pulls up to the house, and Malcolm gets out of the car, a huge wave of relief washing over him when Gil gets out too, to come with him.

"Hey, kid?" Malcolm stops in front of the door, waiting for Gil to continue.

"Want a hug?"

He could say no. He could say no, and Gil wouldn't be upset or push him. He may have issues, but Malcolm is enough of a teenager to get embarrassed by things like affection, sometimes. This is not one of those times.

"Yeah." Gil wraps his arms around him, and Malcolm returns the hug. He reaches higher against the cop's shoulder than he did when he was younger, but it feels just as good and just as safe.

Gil lets him go just as the front door flies open and Jessica comes rushing out with a confused Ainsley trailing behind. "Gil, you found him!"

"I was only missing for two hours, mom," is what he doesn't say. Instead, Malcolm puts on an apologetic face and prepares to be grounded. Who cares about being grounded anyway, when you have nowhere to go?

"Malcolm, you can babysit your sister while I'm at dinner tonight," says his mother, who has quickly gone from worry to indignation.

"Okay," he shrugs, looking at Ainsley, who sticks her tongue out at him. He doesn't mind hanging out with his sister, actually.

"Be good, kid." Gil turns to leave, and Malcolm nods. He may not have had his full therapy session, but he feels lighter anyway.


	4. Unpredictable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He doesn't want to scare off the sweetest woman he's ever dated. He's supposed to be no-strings-attached Gil. Malcolm is a very big, very knotted string that he has no clue how to explain."

Gil opens the door to his apartment, relieved to finally be home after a long shift. He hopes Jackie will be waiting for him, though he hasn't talked to her. After six months of dating, she seems to somehow know when he'll need tender loving care after a tough day.

"And then, you pull it back, almost like a discus, if you've ever seen that on the Olympics." The voice he hears coming from the kitchen is certainly not Jackie's.

Drat, he thinks, Malcolm. It's not that Gil is unhappy to see the kid. Normally he'd be thrilled. But he hasn't had that talk with Jackie yet—the one where he tries to somehow explain that he's been—well, he's been something—to that kid for six years. He's not even sure how to have that talk, so he's avoided it. He doesn't want to scare off the sweetest woman he's ever dated. He's supposed to be no-strings-attached Gil. Malcolm is a very big, very knotted string that he has no clue how to explain. The problem is, he didn't account for the kid's spontaneity or love of surprises. Gil rubs his hand across his face. He figures he probably should have known this is around the time Malcolm's fancy school has its fall break.

"Gil!" Jackie comes around the corner from the kitchen, smiling, wearing his one well-used oven mitt. "The meatloaf is almost done, honey. Malcolm has been telling me about his axe throwing competitions. I definitely want to drive upstate for the next one. It sounds like so much fun."

Gil follows her into the kitchen and dining room side of his apartment and finds Malcolm docilely setting the table. "I see you two have met," he says, trying to take it in stride.

"I—wanted to surprise you," says Malcolm, looking up with a slight question in his eyes, as if he senses this might not have been Gil's preference. Of course he does. By now, the kid can read most people most of the time. The cop hasn't decided if he thinks that's a blessing or a curse. Right now he wishes he could make himself harder to analyze, but that chance is long gone. The kid can read him like a book.

Jackie turns around from checking the meat in the oven. "Malcolm was here when I got here. It was a nice a surprise."

Gil smiles, forcing himself to push back all the questions in his mind. "I was going to introduce you, so I guess I won't have to now."

"Miss Jackie, is this how you wanted it?" Malcolm straightens a fork on the immaculately-set table and then looks up through his eyelashes, giving Jackie his most charming wide-eyed appeal. Gil observes the exchange, bemused and wondering what this dynamic is going to turn into.

"You know it's perfect," Jackie says, bringing over the meatloaf and setting it on a the trivet in the middle of the table. "You did a very good job."

Malcolm beams. If he didn't know better, Gil would say that Jackie was the one with Malcolm wrapped around her little finger, rather than the other way around. The kid is strangely calm, with less manic energy to burn than usual. A little bit like a puppy when there's a dog whisperer around. Gil washes his hands at the sink, then sits down to dinner with his girlfriend and the kid, trying to figure out if Jackie is annoyed or scared and just not showing it.

"Now, Malcolm, how did you and Gil meet?"

It's the most innocent question in the world, except it isn't. Gil kicks himself internally for waiting this long to tell her. This is his fault, he thinks.

Malcolm blinks a couple of times, and Gil starts in quickly, "That's not—"

"It's okay," Malcolm says softly. "Miss Jackie, do you remember the killer called the Surgeon? Gil caught him, a few years back." He's speaking a little quickly, but otherwise his demeanor is calm.

"Of—of course I remember. I didn't realize Gil was the one who arrested him," she says, her face registering confusion. "He didn't tell me that."

Malcolm gives Gil a slightly reproachful look, as if to say, why haven't you told her. Gil doesn't blame him; he agrees with the kid.

"Yeah—uh, Gil and I met because the Surgeon is my dad."

There it is. Gil looks over at Jackie, and though she's clearly surprised, she keeps her cool. "That must have been incredibly hard for you, sweetheart." She pats Malcolm's hand, and he doesn't pull away.

"Yeah, but Gil helped me a lot."

"I don't doubt that," Jackie answers, smiling in Gil's direction as if to say, it's okay.

The rest of the meal is less eventful. Jackie helps steer the conversation onto lighter topics, and though Malcolm is never going to be exactly average in any way, they talk about reasonably normal things, at least for a kid as brilliant as he is—college decisions, favorite subjects, and Jackie even asks him about dating, which actually makes him blush, much to Gil's amusement.

"My mother's sending a car at 8:00," Malcom finally says when they're lingering over after dinner coffee. "I can do the dishes before that, Miss Jackie."

Jackie smiles. "No way. You helped me cook. It's Gil's turn to do the dishes." She winks at him, and he can't resist grinning back and acquiescing.

When he's finished, Gil comes into his small living room and finds Malcolm and Jackie playing chess. It's her board. Gil can't play it to save his life; it's just not for him. She's tried to teach him a few times, and he always gives up in between opening strategies and passed pawns.

"Checkmate." Malcolm says triumphantly. Gil has no idea what the positions on the board signify; he just knows this means the kid won.

"That was very quick, sweetheart," Jackie says, impressed. "I've been playing for a long time. You're very smart, aren't you? You could anticipate what I was going to play."

"I—should have let you win," Malcolm says quickly, his shyness coming back for a second.

"Don't you dare, Malcolm," says Jackie. "You never let people win. You fight fair, and you take your victories." She reaches over and lightly touches him under the chin, something even Gil wouldn't dare to do, but Malcolm just smiles at her.

Just then, Malcolm's phone rings, signaling that his driver has arrived. Gil wants to talk to him alone, but Jackie comes down with him to see the kid out of the building. "I hope I'll see you again before you go back to school," she says, waving as Malcolm heads for the door.

"I hope so, too." Malcolm nods. He means it; Gil can certainly tell that much.

Jackie comes close as they watch the kid leave, leaning into Gil and placing an arm around his waist. "I'm sorry, Jackie," he says when Malcolm is out of earshot.

"What on earth for?"

"I'm sure this isn't the evening you were hoping for."

"Right," she answers. "I'm absolutely furious. I got to find out that the man I love is not just a great detective; he also took a kid in crisis and loved on him so much for years that that kid would rather spend his fall break surprising him instead of doing whatever kids usually do. Of course I would be upset."

Gil kisses her on the elevator back up to his apartment. "Thank you for understanding."

Jackie returns his affection enthusiastically, then pulls back after a while. "I want you to tell me all about it, but my first question is, how do you ever say no to him? A person could get lost in those blue eyes."

Gil laughs. He never would have planned it this way, but that's how it goes with the two unpredictable people he's dared to let himself care about most in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that if we get flashbacks with the real Jackie at some point (I hope), this could go super AU, but I couldn't resist flashing back to the woman Gil loved so much who also, we're told, loved Malcolm like he was her own.


	5. Friction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil breathes hard, in that way he has when he's frustrated. "You're a teenager. You're unarmed. You could be dead if one of those guys had spotted you before I got there. Being right doesn't make you invincible."

"Kid, you're not Batman. You would be in handcuffs in the back of the car if somebody else had responded to the disturbance and thought you were part of the crew."

Malcom seethes. "I was right, Gil. I predicted where the next burglary was going to be, and I helped stop it."

Gil breathes hard, in that way he has when he's frustrated. "You're a teenager. You're unarmed. You could be dead if one of those guys had spotted you before I got there. Being right doesn't make you invincible."

Malcolm shrugs. "What was I supposed to do? The police don't respond to crimes that haven't happened yet. I saw a pattern, and I checked it out." He folds his arms in front of him and grinds the toe of his sneaker into Gil's floormat, slumping in the passenger's seat.

"The 'police' might not have listened, but I would have," Gil shoots back.

"Didn't want to call you and be wrong," Malcolm counters, sensing his upper hand is slipping away. He feels Gil's eyes drilling him, and he resists eye contact.

Gil sighs audibly. "Wrong with backup is better than right and dead. What would I tell your mom if something happened?"

Malcolm doesn't answer, and Gil doesn't say anything else for several blocks. Traffic is obnoxiously bad in the city, and Malcolm finds the tension almost unbearable. He wants to get out of the car, but he figures Gil would about kill him.

"I know you're mad at me, but I'm glad you're okay." Gil finally reaches over and puts his hand on the back of Malcolm's neck, leaving it there for a few seconds. It's something he's done since the night ten-year-old Malcolm turned his father in for murder. It's comforting, and Malcolm doesn't pull away.

"I'm not sorry," he says after a while.

"Didn't figure you would be," Gil answers, his voice back to its usual even tone.

"My dad would be proud of me." It's a cheap shot. Malcolm regrets it as soon as he says it. He doesn't even call Martin Whitly 'dad' any more.

"And I'm not your dad," Gil echoes, but he doesn't sound bothered. "I am right, though." His calm assurance is infuriating. Malcolm doesn't answer again because he has no idea what to say.

It's another twenty minutes of heavy traffic to the Whitly mansion, and when they finally get there, Malcolm practically bursts out of the car.

"Call me when you're ready to talk," Gil calls after him, and Malcolm is pretty sure that will be never.

"Sorry I'm late," Malcolm says as soon as he comes in and finds his mother reading in the front room of the mansion.

Jessica smiles, much to his confusion. "That's fine. Gil called and said you were with him."

"Oh," Malcolm's fury evaporates in an instant, as soon as he takes in the words. "I'll go upstairs."

"Okay," Jessica agrees, as if nothing is wrong at all.

You idiot, Malcolm thinks to himself as he heads to his room. He was the one who had brought Martin into a conversation where he didn't belong, trying to throw his father at Gil, as if there was any comparison between the man who lived in a cell and the one who had just covered for him.

"Hey, Gil?" He calls as soon as he closes the door and collapses onto his bed.

"Hey, kid."

"I'm sorry."

"That was fast."

"I talked to my mom. She wasn't mad. Somebody called her and covered for me."

"You're welcome."

"See you Thursday." It's his usual dinner night with Gil and Jackie when he's home for the summer.

"Sure, kid."

Malcolm feels better, but he doesn't have long to savor it before a loud knock on his door tells him Ainsley is imminent.

"I need help with my Geometry homework." His sister, who is small for her age but makes up for it in determination, bursts into his room and tosses a notebook and textbook onto Malcolm's bed next to him. She would be too young to take Geometry, but she's in summer school. By choice. She wants to get ahead of everybody else.

"Why don't you ask Mom?" Malcolm enquires, sitting up and leaning on his headboard.

"She doesn't do Geometry," Ainsley answers. "But you do everything."

Malcolm can't argue with that, and after the day he's had, he's actually glad for the company and for something else to focus his mind on. He settles into proofs, with Ainsley perched next to him, and as usual, she's just as smart as he is.

When he goes to Gil's on Thursday, Malcom will tell him this was his penance, two hours of math homework that wasn't even his. The cop will know that Malcolm didn't really mind, that he likes being Ainsley's hero. But Gil will be proud anyway, and that's the whole point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surely Malcolm's issues of personal risk and asking/waiting for help started long before we meet him in the series. And my guess is Gil was just as fed up with them back then as he is now.


	6. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is why I love psychology, Gil. It’s full of strange paradoxes, but it’s beautiful.”

Malcolm is nervous, jumpy, on edge. It wouldn’t be that unusual, except that he’s eating his favorite pizza across the dining table from Jackie, which is usually when he’s his most comfortable. Gil is concerned. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he suspects why.

“Sweetheart, did you see Dr. Whitly this week?” It’s Jackie’s way to be direct, and she’s no fool. She sees the signs as much as Gil does.

“Yes, ma’am.” Malcolm, now close to graduation and adulthood, is rarely that deferentially respectful with anyone. Except Jackie. 

“You want to talk about it?” Gil asks, jumping in because he can see how much the confirmation upsets his wife, who has never had a poker face to save her life.

Malcolm looks up from his pepperoni, and Gil once again feels the force of his impossibly blue eyes. “You don’t have to worry,” he says, the tremor in his hand belying his words. “At this point, I’m using him as profiling material.”

“I do worry,” Jackie insists. “You’re better the longer you go without seeing him.”

Malcolm waits a moment, then starts again, “You’re afraid he’s going to destabilize my mental health, but you’re also afraid he’ll pull me away and you’ll lose me. That’s not going to happen.”

Gil takes his wife’s hand, feeling her tension rise. “Are you actually trying to profile me, Malcolm?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No profiling at dinner,” Gil puts in, trying to lighten the mood. 

Jackie goes uncharacteristically quiet, stewing in a combination of worry and frustration, and Malcolm eats practically nothing, which isn’t unusual at all.

Finally, Gil has had enough of silence and untouched food. “Kid, I’ll drive you home.”

Jackie hugs Malcolm goodbye very, very tightly, not one to let momentary frustration hold her back from being affectionate, and he hugs her back just as fiercely. 

Once they’re in Gil’s car, the cop tries to smooth things over. “You know Jackie gets upset just because she loves you so much.”

“I know. My father never stops smiling, and it feels horrible; Jackie gets mad, and it feels great.” Malcolm shrugs. “This is why I love psychology, Gil. It’s full of strange paradoxes, but it’s beautiful.”

“And, the more you understand about it, the less out of control you feel,” Gil supplies.

Malcolm’s face registers surprise at the cop’s straightforward observation. “I’m not an idiot,” Gil adds mildly. “To have any success at my job, you have to learn something about people. Besides, I’ve known you for a long time, kid. I don’t just sit here and drive; I pay attention.”

“Gil, why did you believe me, that night I called my father in?”

“That was pure intuition,” the cop answers. “I can’t give you logic for it. I just looked at you, and I knew you were telling the truth, the way I knew Jackie was the one or that I should take my last promotion. And you saved my life.”

Malcolm squeezes his hand to stop it moving, too much of that lately. “Thank you for believing me. I think—I think it’s why I’m still here.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” Gil answers readily, “but be careful. I haven’t stuck around this long to watch the Surgeon steal another victim.”

Malcolm nods. “I promise I’ll—consider going to see him less often.”

“It’s a start,” Gil answers, putting his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Compromise.”

—

When Gil gets home, he wordlessly reaches out his arms to hold Jackie, still perpetually amazed that she’s his. “He said he’ll consider seeing his father less frequently.”

Jackie leans into him and closes her eyes. “Thanks, honey. I know he loves us both, but you’re so much better at talking him into things.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Gil answers. “You’ve gotten him to trust you, which is more than I thought was possible.”

“You can’t get lies past him,” she says. “He knows I love him like he’s my kid, and if I didn’t, he knows he’d be able to tell. He needs a lot of love, that one.”

“You’re right,” Gil agrees. In his optimistic moments, he hopes that love will be enough to help the kid through. In his less optimistic moments, well, he looks at Jackie and knows she believes enough for both of them.


	7. A Hug from a Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't deserve it. Gil, I must be a bad person. What kind of person wants to go see a monster?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by the fact that in more than one interview, Tom Payne has said that Malcolm's driving emotional conflict in his scenes with Martin is that he desperately wants "a hug from a monster," who happens to be his dad, even though he feels like he shouldn't still love someone who has done the things Martin has done. The child inside Malcolm constantly fights with the adult layer of professionalism. Of course, we see Michael Sheen as Martin brilliantly manipulating his son's vulnerability and remaining attachment to him.
> 
> One of the things I like about Prodigal Son is the realism of the fact that while Gil is clearly a very positive replacement father figure, his presence in Malcolm's life doesn't automatically fix everything else.

"I thought you weren't coming here again before you go back to school?" Gil's tone is neutral, but Malcolm bristles.

He gets into Gil's car and slams the door, sitting down hard, squeezing his hands together to stop the tremor. "I can see Martin if I want to. That has nothing to do with you." He tries to sound cold, but when he hears himself, he just sounds tremulous.

Gil gives him a look. "Nothing to do with me, yet I'm the one picking you up from your visit. You can't use me to keep your mom from knowing what you're doing and then expect me not to care. It doesn't work like that."

"I'm getting my license soon, so it won't matter," Malcolm shoots back, trying to hurt Gil because for some reason that seems like a better option than feeling his current feelings.

Gil drives away, but pretty soon he pulls over into a parking lot. "Traffic is bad," he says shortly, "and you're so agitated it's distracting me from driving. So, we're going to sit here until you either calm yourself down or talk through it with me, whichever you want."

Malcolm breathes hard, his teenage anger threatening to explode like a popping balloon. "I can get a —- ing cab," he says.

"No, you won't," Gil replies in his calmest voice. "What happened in there, kid? Did your father say something to you? You can tell me anything. You know that."

"I didn't want to go back," Malcolm finally explodes, clenching his fists.

"So why did you? Did he do something to make you think you had to?"

Malcolm shifts in the passenger's seat, breathing hard. "It wasn't his fault, Gil. I just—I thought about going back to school and not seeing him again until spring, and I—I needed to go back there." Malcolm grinds his right fist into his left palm, trying to use physical pressure to relieve emotional tension.

"You miss him when you're gone," Gil says.

That's when the dam bursts, and Malcolm buries his face in his hands because he can't hold back the tears. "He doesn't deserve it. Gil, I must be a bad person. What kind of person wants to go see a monster? What does it say about me that I still miss when he used to tuck me in at night? All I could think of today was that I—wanted to hug him." The last part is so soft it's barely audible, laced with shame.

Gil doesn't say anything, and he doesn't give his usual understated support. Instead, Malcolm immediately finds himself pulled close and held, as Gil reaches over and envelopes him in his arms. He's too tired and distraught to resist.

Gil doesn't say anything for a long time. Malcolm, who felt a few minutes ago like he might never calm down again, can't help but respond to the comfort of Gil's hand rubbing his back and the sense of safety that automatically comes with being in the cop's embrace and sobbing on the older man's shoulder. It may have been a long time, but the feeling is the same as it's always been, when he was ten and now that he's nearly eighteen.

"Gil, I wish you were my dad."

He's never said it out loud before, but he knows it's always been there between them.

"Me, too, kid." Gil pulls back just far enough to cradle Malcolm's face in his huge hand and make eye contact. "You're the kind of son anybody would be lucky to have."

Malcolm feels more tears spill over at this, and he dives back into Gil's embrace, burying his face in the cop's shoulder again.

"You know I'm not going anywhere, and neither is Jackie," says Gil, who welcomes him back readily. "Even when you're gone for college, we'll still be like family. You'll always have us to come home to, along with your mom and Ainsley."

"I know," Malcolm answers, voice muffled by the fabric of Gil's shirt. "Please don't be mad that I'm still seeing Martin."

He hears Gil sigh. "You know I wish you weren't for your own sake, but it doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you that you want to see your dad or that you miss him." They've had the same basic conversation a myriad of times over the years; it still feels good to hear Gil say it, and Malcolm still forgets—doubts it—each time in between.

"Malcolm," Gil finally adds gently, still holding onto him, "you deserved a dad you could hug."

It's Malcolm's turn to pull back. He lifts his head off Gil's shoulder so he can look him in the eye. "But nobody said you had to be the substitute."

"Nope," Gil agrees, "nobody did. Ten-year-old you was a choice I made all on my own that I've never regretted."

Malcolm knows better than to argue that he's not worth it. For once, he doesn't answer. He just relaxes and lets acceptance overtake fear.


	8. The Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil smiles. “Hard to tell what’s going on in that head of hers.”

“Tie it like this.” Malcolm holds his own hands around his sister’s, gently forming knots with her fingers, so she can see what it feels like and do it herself. Gil watches intently, not interfering, while Jackie lays out picnic supplies on the blanket behind him.

It was at Malcolm’s request that they invited Ainsley, whom they hardly know. As much as Gil knows the ins and outs of who Malcolm is, he realizes again how little he knows about huge parts of the kid’s life. He’s barely ever seen the siblings interacting.

“Why isn’t it working?” Ainsley, at twelve, is quick, bright, and volatile—far more than her brother was. Malcolm calls her the normal one, but Gil isn’t so sure. There’s something brittle about her, an unusual feeling that she’s both older and younger than she’s supposed to be, somehow. 

“Give it more line,” Malcolm coaxes patiently. “Don’t control it so tightly.”

Gil isn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. He has no children of his own, but surely it can’t be normal for siblings to get along this well. He and Jackie had resigned themselves to dealing with whatever fights or arguments they would have to referee. But there’s none of that.

“I can’t. You do it,” Ainsley finally huffs in frustration and holds the downed kite back out to her brother. Malcolm stands behind her and puts his arms around her slight frame, once again holding her hands, then helping her let the kite go slowly, as it catches the breeze and finally soars into the sky.

“Be patient,” he hears Malcolm say. “If you let it go easy and don’t jerk on it, it will fly.”

Two hours later, after sandwiches and lemonade, Jackie leaves with Ainsley for a girls afternoon at the spa, and Gil takes Malcolm to the museum of Medieval weaponry—the kid’s favorite. 

As they walk through row upon row of axes and swords that, truth be told, look the same to Gil, he clears his throat. “I was proud of you today.”

“What for?” Malcolm asks, peering at every angle of a Saxon spearhead.

“The way you treat your sister. It’s—you’re really good with her, Malcolm. That must make it easier on your mom, too.”

Malcolm doesn’t turn around, but Gil can see that he’s blushing because his ears turn pink. The kid shrugs. “We have to stick together. We’re all we’ve got. I knew it since the night you arrested my dad. Ains was so little and confused. I—I couldn’t ever fight with her after that. Not really.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Gil affirms, waiting while Malcolm interacts with a hands-on chainmail exhibit. 

“I’m lucky to have her,” Malcolm returns, rejoining him. “A couple of years ago, she saw me have one of my night terrors, one of the really bad, violent ones. I never wanted her to see that, but when I woke up, she wasn’t freaked out. She just hugged me, and she made hot cocoa for me like she was a tiny version of mom. My mom never even woke that up that time because Ainsley took care of me.”

“Fair enough,” Gil answers, “you’re lucky to have each other.” 

“The best thing is, she’s never seen Martin,” Malcolm adds quickly. “She knows who he is because there’s no way to avoid it, but she barely remembers him.”

Gil wonders to himself if this will be enough, if it would be enough for any child in the long run, but he doesn’t say it because he knows it would set Malcolm off. “A lot of kids wish they had a big brother to protect them. I can see why the two of you are close.”

Malcolm laughs, and it’s a sound Gil loves and doesn’t hear frequently enough. “Protect her? She’s more likely to protect me. The only time she’s ever been in real trouble at school is when a kid said something bad about our family, and she punched him in the face so hard he had to get dental work.”

Gil smiles. “Hard to tell what’s going on in that head of hers.”

“Impossible to profile,” Malcolm echoes, his tone conveying pride. “I’ve tried for years. I’ll keep trying. But I can’t figure her out.”

“Sometimes the people closest to us are the hardest,” Gil says, but he doesn’t really believe that’s the answer. He agrees with the kid that his sister is impossible to quantify, like a puzzle he can’t make head or tails of. He sometimes finds women tougher to read, but he gets there. And he’s met plenty of children related to criminals over the years. He understands Malcolm pretty well, after all, not exactly a simple proposition. Maybe more time with Ainsley would do it, but he sort of doubts it.

“Good thing you can love someone without fully understanding them,” Gil finally adds, following Malcolm into the helmet room. 

“Uh huh,” Malcolm agrees, heading into the visored section. “Happy to let her be the normal one.”

“Normal,” Gil thinks, is not the word he would have used.


	9. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm stares straight ahead. “It will be worth it if I can help save them.”
> 
> Gil nods. “That’s the choice I made a long time ago. It’s not easy, and it has to be what you decide. Nobody else can make a decision that big for you.”

“Thanks, Mister.”

“I’m not Mister; I’m just Malcolm.”

The little girl eats the red Jolly Rancher, perched on a too-big chair in the attorney’s office. Malcolm waits with her. He could leave; his driver is outside. But he waits, because the little girl’s mom and advocate are in the other room talking to the lawyer, and she would be all alone.

“Are you a lawyer?” she asks curiously.

“No,” Malcolm answers, “I’m still a kid, like you, just a big one. Some day I’m going to be a profiler.”

“What’s that?”

“They help the police put bad people in jail.”

“That’s cool,” she answers. “I’m going to be a martial artist.”

That seems a little unusual for an eight-year-old, and Malcolm is intrigued. “What kind?”

“The kind who can knock out anybody who tries to hurt them,” she answers, a very dark look crossing her face.

Malcolm swallows hard. He wonders how people do this all the time, like the advocates who do nothing but work with child victims. He wishes he could hug her, to reassure her that the creep she’s just testified against is going away for good. 

“Do you want another Jolly Rancher?” She takes a green one this time, and it makes him think of Gil, of how much it comforted him that somebody cared. There’s very little he can do for the little girl, but maybe he can make the memory of her deposition day a little less dark, the way Gil once did for him. 

“Kate, let’s go,” the harried mother finally comes out of the conference room and holds out her hand for her daughter.

“Bye, Malcolm,” Kate calls back to him. 

“Bye,” he says, watching them leave and then waiting a minute before he follows, collecting himself.

—

“You know, kid, if you work with law enforcement, you’re going to have to deal with these things. It’s not just finding clues like Sherlock Holmes; it’s about people. And when you empathize as intensely as you do, it makes you good at the job, but it also hurts more.”

Malcolm is in Gil’s car, reporting on the deposition and his observations. He’s not surprised by how much he was able to pick up from people’s mannerisms and ways of talking. He is surprised by how emotional he felt.

“I guess I thought it was easier to detach than that,” he admits.

“Nah,” Gil says, “not for you. Maybe for some people. But you’ve never had a detached bone in your body. There are some things you can work up to, but that’s not one of them. You’re always going to feel it.”

Malcolm goes quiet for a few minutes, thinking. “This is why I’m not like my father.”

“Among many things,” Gil answers drily. “I wasn’t worried about that three minutes into meeting you.”

“You feel it too,” Malcolm says. “That’s why you treated me the way you did back then.”

“I’ve had longer to come to terms with it, but essentially, yes. That’s how I know it doesn’t really go away or get easier.”

Malcolm stares straight ahead. “It will be worth it if I can help save them.”

Gil nods. “That’s the choice I made a long time ago. It’s not easy, and it has to be what you decide. Nobody else can make a decision that big for you.”

“I’d rather be like you than him any day,” Malcolm says, meaning it fervently.

Gil looks over at him. “Kid, you have it in you to be better than either of us. Whatever decision you make, let it be what you want. You don’t owe the world anything, and you definitely don’t have to atone for Martin Whitly. The world just needs you to be the best Malcolm you can be.”

“I’m not sure how great that is,” Malcolm answers.

“Well, we’ll find out together, won’t we?”

As always, Gil’s reassurance is like a verbal embrace, and Malcolm goes quiet again, but it’s a comfortable silence. “I’m glad you made that choice,” he says after a while. 

“Me, too, usually,” Gil answers, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “When it comes to you, no regrets.”

“I’ll make sure you never have any,” Malcolm says quickly, a little anxiously.

Gil shakes his head. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re already not perfect. Still my favorite, though. Nothing you can do to get rid of me now.” 

“No, sir,” Malcolm answers respectfully. Somehow, the older he gets, the more he’s learning to value Gil’s presence in his life and not take it for granted, to at least try to grasp the enormity of the choice to take him on all those years before and never stop.

“Gil, I’m glad you were the one who came to the house that night.”

“Yep, me, too.”

They have said it a thousand times, and they will say it a thousand times more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: If this scenario seems impossible, it isn’t. Before lockdown, I was hosting a criminal case deposition in my office, and we had a student sit in on it. It’s allowable if all the involved parties agree to it.


	10. The Thing They Don’t Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has known for a long time that his door would never be closed to Malcolm. He now dares to believe the kid might never stop walking through it.

“Jackie mentioned you’ve decided on psychology at Harvard.” Gil broaches the subject tentatively over a one on one dinner at their favorite hole-in-the-wall diner, concerned that Malcolm hasn’t told him himself. 

“Yeah—I made the decision a few weeks ago and let them know.” The kid looks at the table instead of at him.

“Malcolm, is there some reason you thought you couldn’t tell me?” Gil wades in deeper, encouraged that Malcolm isn’t getting agitated.

“Just—didn’t want to disappoint you.” The kid’s voice is soft, and Gil flashes back to the nervous ten-year-old he’d once been.

Gil shakes his head. “You’re on scholarship to Harvard. That’s the last thing on earth to be disappointed over.”

“But—you know what it means,” the kid adds a little breathlessly, “the FBI, if it works out. You—tried to talk me out of that.”

Gil nods. “I think there are other things you could do with your talents, but that’s not my choice, Malcolm. I’m not disappointed you’re making your own decisions. I’m proud of you.”

“Really?” Gil is used to taking Malcolm however he comes, but he’s nonplussed by how much Malcolm obviously doesn’t want to disappoint him. Eight years on, he’s still surprised by the flashes he sometimes sees of how vehemently Malcolm is attached to him. He would never assume that his investment of time entitles him to something like a parent’s rights. Gil just did what he did because a kid needed him; he’s never expected anything back.

“Of course, kid. I’m always proud of you.”

Malcolm visibly relaxes, and Gil wonders if he should have said it more often. He’s tried his level best to be supportive, but he’s no psychologist.

“My mom thinks I’m crazy, and Martin is thrilled,” Malcolm adds. “That was almost enough to make me change my mind.”

Gil locks eyes with him. “Son, it has to be what you want. It’s your life, nobody else’s. You can change your mind later if you don’t like it, but that’s got to come from you.” Gil has only ever called Malcolm “Son” a handful of times. It seems to fit this time, when he’s trying to emphasize something fundamental that neither of the kid’s biological parents will say. Not Jessica, still trying to hold together the crumbled ruins of social respectability, and not Martin, always trying to replicate himself through his child. Gil sees Jessica’s bravery for what it is, but it’s a kind of courage that isn’t always the best for the unconventional son she adores, however misguidedly. 

“Jackie said you got a promotion,” Malcolm flips the conversation suddenly. “Any reason you didn’t think you could tell me that?” The kid half-smirks, turning Gil’s words on him.

Gil shrugs. “More people under me, more homicides, probably even longer hours. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Why do you think I’m less proud of you than you are of me?”

Gil looks at Malcolm, not answering for a moment, forcing himself to realize that he’s looking across the table at a man—a young one, but still, an adult. One whose intelligence and empathy genuinely amaze him. He realizes in that moment, maybe more than he ever has before, that it has all been worth it—and it’s not going anywhere. He has known for a long time that his door would never be closed to Malcolm. He now dares to believe the kid might never stop walking through it. 

“Eat your food,” Gil says, but he can’t help smiling. 

“I love you, Gil.”

It takes the cop by surprise. It’s the thing they don’t say, because it’s almost too true to voice it. But as he hears it, it sounds like the perfect summation of the past eight years. 

“I love you, too, kid.”

He forces himself to meet Malcolm’s intense blue eyes again. 

“I know.”


	11. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not going to pretend it’s simple or that I’m thrilled with every choice you’re making. But I’m always proud of you. Never forget that I—I know, Malcolm. I was there eight years ago. I’m proud of you for just being.”

Malcolm helps Jackie carve a turkey that’s far too big for three people to eat. Of course, Jackie does it on purpose so Gil can take the leftovers to the homeless people who congregate a couple of streets over from their building. 

Jackie wields her ancient electric knife while Malcolm holds the platter steady. His mind flashes back to a few hours earlier, to sitting across the table from Ainsley and his mother.

“Thank you for having me, Miss Jackie,” he says. “This is a lot better than being at home.” He’s always honest with Jackie. 

Smiling, Jackie places the now-carved turkey onto the table. “I’m glad you could come, sweetheart. I know senior year is always busy, and you have your family.”

Malcolm shrugs. “It’s not like Christmas at home. Mom has the decorators put everything up in the house, and we have a perfect brunch where nobody talks. There’s nothing fun about it.”

Jackie turns around from taking a green bean casserole out of the oven and faces Malcolm, her hands on her hips. “Malcolm, did it ever occur to you that holidays must be insanely hard for your mother?”

He blinks. “Of-of course, they’re hard for our whole family.”

“No, no, no, don’t do that.” Jackie advances on him, stopping right in front of him and putting her hand under his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. If it was almost anyone else, he would pull away, but it doesn’t even cross his mind to pull away from Jackie.

“You and Ainsley have to keep it together for yourselves, but your mom has to keep it together for all of you. Did you ever think about how much she probably doesn’t even want to celebrate, but she does it anyway because of you and your sister?

Malcolm shakes his head no. For all that he prides himself on his perceptiveness about everyone else, he hasn’t considered Jessica’s feelings. Jackie pats his hand as soon as she sees his self-disappointed expression. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Mothers understand. Just maybe try to cut her some slack from now on?”

“I will. I promise.”

Later in the evening, Malcolm helps Gil bake his famous pumpkin pie while Jackie rests in the living room. Malcolm is calmer than he’s been in weeks, the usual effect of being at the Arroyo apartment.

“Jackie wanted to get you a saber for Christmas,” Gil says. “I convinced her some Harvard gear is more our speed.”

Malcolm laughs. “You mean your speed. Jackie is way less boring than you are.” He’s obviously joking, and Gil grins, taking a light swipe at his shoulder as he passes by.

“Hey, kid?”

“Yeah?” Gil pauses for a second, and Malcolm waits. 

“I don’t know how things are at home for you right now, but—make sure things are okay with your mom before you go to Harvard. I know it’s close to here, and I know you’ll be home a lot, but it won’t ever be exactly the same. You’ll regret it if you go to college and leave things weird.”

Malcolm keeps mixing spices and thinks before he answers. “I’m not even a good son to her, Gil. Jackie showed me that earlier.”

“That doesn’t sound much like Jackie,” Gil pushes back.

“No, I mean, she made me realize that I haven’t even thought about my mom so many times when I should have.”

Gil leaves his pie crust and comes over, standing next to Malcolm and putting a hand on his shoulder with a comforting squeeze. “Teenagers are legendarily self-centered. You should see some of the entitled brats I arrest. They make you look like Saint Peter. Just—work on it. Nothing is set in stone yet. If you need to fix something, you can do it.”

Malcolm turns to Gil for a quick hug, flour and all. “Thanks.”

“If you need to fix something, you can do it.” Those words echo in Malcolm’s mind. They will echo for years, superseding psychiatrists and supervisors, girlfriends and coworkers. He will cling to those words, because he believes Gil, and that belief will help him to believe in himself when his hope is almost gone.

—

Malcolm goes home from the Arroyos’ earlier than he’d planned. His preference would be to stay as long as possible at their comforting safe haven, but he has work to do.

His mother is already upstairs when he gets to the Whitly house, and normally this would dissuade him, but this time he goes to her suite and knocks lightly on the door. “Mom? I’m home.”

Jessica opens the door. She’s dressed in pajamas and robe and has a martini in one hand, but he can tell she isn’t drunk, and she hasn’t taken her sleeping pills yet. “Do you—want to come in?” She ushers him into the large sitting room adjacent to her bedroom. 

Malcom follows her and takes a seat on one end of her ornate sofa, feeling a little awkward. He hardly ever comes into this room. It’s his mother’s domain.

“You’re home early.” He’s surprised to find that she’s paid enough attention to know it’s out of the ordinary.

“Yeah, I, um, wanted to spend some time with you—since it’s Christmas.” Malcolm fidgets nervously.

His mother sits next to him. “That’s—sweet.” She clearly feels awkward too, and he tries to profile her, to read her, but his emotions cloud his ability.

“Mom, we haven’t missed a holiday since—Martin got arrested.”

“I know,” she answers. “You, me, and Ainsley have always made it work.”

“Yet you’re drinking, and earlier you took a benzo,” he counters. “Are you sure we’re keeping it together?” Malcolm wants to smack himself as soon as he says it, realizing how it sounds. 

“You came home early to judge me,” Jessica says, her voice brittle. “I should have known. Malcolm, I know I’m not a perfect mother, but—“

“Stop,” Malcolm answers softly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, Mom. I just meant—I see how hard it has to be for you to put on Christmas every year for Ainsley and me. I’m—I just wanted to say thank you, honest.”

Malcolm feels Jessica’s eyes on him for a few moments, studying him. “You really mean that,” she says after a while. 

Malcolm and his mother are rarely physically affectionate to each other. He has a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that they share too much in common—that too much expression of emotion or affection is liable to cause both of them to drown in their shared pain.

It certainly feels a little like drowning when Jessica turns and wraps him in a fierce, tight hug, but as he relaxes into her hold, it’s also like reaching the surface and breathing again. 

The scent of his mother’s perfume sends Malcolm’s mind into countless memories all at once, and he closes his eyes and lets them wash over him. “Merry Christmas, Malcolm.” Jessica keeps him close, and he hugs her back, not saying anything.

After a long time, Malcolm is gently released from his mother’s embrace. “Malcolm, I want you to promise me something.”

“Sure, Mom.” He’s in an emotional state to promise her the world. 

“If anything was to ever happen to me, I want you to take care of your sister.”

“Of course,” he answers.

“She has no reason to ever see your father.”

“No,” Malcolm agrees, envying his sister in the moment.

“You’re both growing up,” she finally says. 

“I’m sorry I’m not making you proud,” Malcolm answers softly. 

Jessica sits back and looks over at him. “I’m not going to pretend it’s simple or that I’m thrilled with every choice you’re making. But I’m always proud of you. Never forget that I—I know, Malcolm. I was there eight years ago. I’m proud of you for just being.”

Malcolm feels his equilibrium returning. “I’m proud of you for the same thing, Mom.”

Jessica smiles. “How did you get so mature suddenly?”

Malcolm shrugs and grins. “Probably Gil.”

He notices but fails to understand the wistful look that crosses Jessica’s face as she agrees. 

—

By the time Malcolm leaves his mother’s room, it’s late evening. He kisses her cheek good night, and she ruffles his hair like he’s eight all over again. “Good night, sweet son.” 

The awkwardness is not all gone, and nobody would call the conversation they’ve had easy, but Malcolm feels relief. What he’s been reminded of, in his mother’s hug and on the end of her words, is that their bond goes far beyond a few months of distance or teenaged phases. She is still a safe harbor.

As he heads into his room, Malcolm peeks across the hall, seeing a light on under Ainsley’s closed door. Unexpected. She’d gone to a party that was supposed to last very late. 

A split second after he notices the light, he hears the crying. 

“Ains? Ains, are you okay? Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” He hears the faint answer and pushes the door open. Ainsley is a heap on her bed, still wearing her party dress, sobbing.

This is so out of character that it takes Malcolm a few seconds to take it in. “Are you hurt? What happened?” His adrenaline starts to pump as he realizes what he’s seeing.

Ainsley lifts up her head, eyes puffy from crying. “Malcolm, I need a hug, not a doctor.”

This, on the other hand, is definitely in character. Where Malcolm and his mother are reserved, Ainsley is open, willing to say what she wants and needs. He sometimes wishes he could be that way. 

He hugs her, of course, sitting on the edge of her bed and trying to evoke Gil, the most comforting person he knows. She soaks his shoulder with her tears while her thin body shakes in his arms. He is no giant, but Ainsley feels tiny, fragile in his grasp.

“They only invited me so they could make fun of me in front of Nathan. They said all this crap about Dad, and he didn’t know about it before because he’s not from here.”

Nathan. Ainsley’s latest crush. She’s barely talked about anything else for weeks.

Malcolm pats her back in what he hopes is a soothing way. “Ains, you’ve put up with this stuff for years, and you said you didn’t even care. I don’t know how you’ve been so strong. What’s different this time?”

He goes for an even, calming tone. Dr. Le Deux on a good day, the way she sounds when she questions him about something new and unexpected.

“I don’t care about those stupid girls,” Ainsley says softly once her sobs have died down. I just care about Nathan.”

“If he’s a good guy, he won’t care, and if he’s not a good guy, you don’t want him anyway.” Malcolm parrots what he figures adults would say, still hugging his sister, who feels slightly less limp in his arms. 

“Lame,” Ainsley finally answers, pulling back and rubbing her red eyes. Malcolm is relieved to see her snark returning.

“I know,” he shrugs, “but I don’t know what to say.”

Ainsley smiles. “But you tried. Because you’re a good brother.”

“Don’t you want Mom?” he asks.

Ainsley shakes her head. “You know how much she wants us to be socially acceptable. She was so happy I got invited to this stupid party. I just can’t disappoint her like that.”

Malcolm nods. That’s something he certainly understands. “Ains, I changed my name. You could do the same thing for high school—go to a new school, new last name, never hang out with those girls ever again.”

Ainsley looks him in the eye, and the steel is back. “No way. I’m going back after break, and I’m going to show those witches that none of it bothered me at all, and in four years I’m going to make ‘Ainsley Whitly’ the name of the Valedictorian. 

Malcolm smiles. “Good girl. Stick it to them the way I can’t. Make Mom proud.”

Ainsley hugs him then, very tightly. “We’re different, Malcolm. It’s okay.” 

He’s tried to be there for her, but in the end, she’s the one who comforts him the most. “Merry Christmas, Ains.” He finally goes across the hall to his room, and he finds a text from Gil:

“You made it through another Christmas, Kid. I’m proud of you.”Malcolm reads the simple words a few times, hearing Gil’s voice saying them, feeling their warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Tom Payne has commented on the emotional reserve between Jessica and Malcolm, the fact that these two people obviously care for each other in an extremely deep way to the point that everyone knows, but they normally show it to each other incredibly subtly. His example of this is that when Malcolm comes to let Jessica know that he no longer suspects her of knowing what Martin was up to, their emotional moment results in Jessica patting Malcolm’s shoulder. Tom, who reiterated that Malcolm “needs a hug” was wanting to see them have that moment of closeness and rawness, but they couldn’t quite get there. 
> 
> This chapter is to fulfill my own desire to see rare but important points in time when these two might have expressed their love a little more directly. I honestly find Jessica very difficult to write. Other than Malcolm himself, I think she might be the most complicated character on the show. Bellamy plays her with a certain brittle veneer, but with so much underneath it that I feel like there are aspects of Jessica I’m still getting a handle on. 
> 
> All that said, I definitely share Tom’s desire to see Malcolm and Jessica reach greater emotional openness with each other on screen. My personal theory, as alluded to in this chapter, is that their usual reserve relates to an underlying feeling they both have that if they open their emotional Pandora’s box, they won’t be able to handle the intensity of their shared pain. One of my favorite moments in Season 1 is when Malcolm reacts to Jessica’s police interview. The contrast of his emotion there with the reserve they both display later is really fascinating.


	12. The Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm’s handshake is surprisingly strong, and Gil can’t help feeling like he’s experiencing a preview of the future—a future in which he solves cases alongside the man Malcolm is becoming.

Gil drives all the way upstate, to Malcolm’s boarding school. This is one conversation the kid deserves in person, and Gil could certainly use a day out of the office. 

He’s been to the old, brick campus a handful of times—for plays Malcolm participated in and to watch his Medieval weaponry tournaments. What kind of school has those? The kind where half the kids have bodyguards and the teachers have more qualifications than the local college professors. Gil can’t imagine ever being at home in such a place, but Malcolm has thrived there—or, at least, as near to it as was ever going to be possible. 

“Come in, Detective Arroyo. I’ll fetch Mr. Bright.” He’d called ahead, so he’s expected. No fuss, just his car in the visitor’s lot and then one of those staff members in black dress shirts whom the school seems to have an endless quantity of roaming the halls.

“Thank you,” he says, following the woman into the visitor’s library, a low-lit, quiet, and pleasant place filled with the scent of old books and the look of old money. He sits down on a brown leather sofa, relieved that it’s actually comfortable.

“Gil!” Fifteen minutes pass before the door opens again, and Gil watches Malcolm enter. He’s in a dress shirt and slacks—seniors transition out of uniforms to what the school calls “business attire,” but considering their student body, it’s more like a men’s designer runway show. 

“You okay?” Malcolm gives him a quizzical look, and Gil realizes he’s taken too long to greet him.

“Sorry, kid. I was thinking you look grown. I don’t think about it that much, but then you come in dressed like that, and I remember you’re not ten any more.”

Gil is rewarded with a grin that makes Malcolm look younger than his eighteen years, but does nothing to remind Gil of his actual child self—child Malcolm had almost never smiled.

“So why are you all the way out here?” Malcolm asks, “Not that—I mean, it’s good to see you, but your email didn’t tell me anything.” The kid sits in the black wing chair opposite the sofa, fidgeting as always.

“I told you it’s good news,” Gil corrects. “Didn’t want you to get scared.”

“You’re stalling,” Malcolm answers.

“You’re right,” Gil admits with a smile, opening his old black briefcase. “This is the best surprise I’ve had in a long time. Wanted to keep it going as long as I could.”

Malcolm is leaning forward in his seat, watching intently as Gil takes out an innocent-looking Manila file folder. 

“You remember the Wilson case?”

“Of course I do,” Malcolm answers, drumming the toes of his dress shoes against the carpet.

“Well,” Gil finally says, handing over a stack of paper, “we got him.”

“Congrats,” Malcolm says, sounding just a shade disappointed. 

“That’s not all, Malcolm. Give me a little more credit.” It’s Gil’s turn to get excited. He leans forward and puts his hand on Malcolm’s thin knee. “Kid, your profile was what did it.”

Malcolm’s blue eyes flash with surprise, and then Gil is pretty sure he sees tears. “I took what you told me—about the ripped out comics at the crime scenes being about his search for a father figure—and I passed it on like I’d thought of it. I couldn’t tell them where I got it, but Lawrence made them incorporate it into the official profile. Narrowed the suspect pool and finally got us there.”

“You—actually told them what I said like it was your idea?”

“Yeah, kid. I wanted to credit you, but Lawrence wouldn’t have given me the time of day. I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

Malcom shakes his head. “No, Gil, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—you trusted my profile enough to put your name on it?”

“I did,” Gil answers, nodding. “I told you your skills would go beyond me one day. We may not be quite there yet, but we’re close. This time, you saw something we all missed.”

“What if I’d been wrong, Gil?”

“It was worth it,” Gil answers. “I believed you. If we’d both been wrong, I would have taken responsibility. You know that.”

“I know,” Malcolm says. “It’s just weird to have someone stand up for me.”

Gil raises an eyebrow. “I know how apocalyptically you tend to think, but at least admit I’ve had your back for the past eight years. You haven’t been on your own.”

Malcolm smiles and shakes his head. “No, you’re right, but it still surprises me.”

“You might as well finally get used to it,” Gil replies dryly. “I’m not planning to go anywhere.”

“And,” Gil continues, trying to moderate his own excitement, “there’s one more thing.”

“Huh?” Malcolm just stares at him, and Gil enjoys the anticipation.

“‘The Forensic Review’” asked me for a piece on the case, and it’s been accepted for publication later this year. The article will run as a co-author credit: Gil Arroyo and Malcolm Bright.”

Malcolm is speechless, which is so rare Gil can’t even remember the last time it happened, if ever. “I hope you won’t mind,” Gil continued, “but I had a copy sent to the department head at Harvard. Thought it might be a good introduction for you.”

Malcolm nods, and there’s no question now that his eyes are wet. “That—was really cool of you, Gil.”

“I know it was,” the cop answers with a grin, “but you really earned it, Malcolm. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.” 

“No, thank you.” Gil puts out his hand. “You didn’t just help me; you caught a killer. You probably saved lives. Well done.” Malcolm’s hand meets his, and he shakes it, man to man.

Malcolm’s handshake is surprisingly strong, and Gil can’t help feeling like he’s experiencing a preview of the future—a future in which he solves cases alongside the man Malcolm is becoming. But it’s not the real future, because Malcolm is going his own way, so Gil clears his head quickly. Malcolm’s future has never been his to decide. It’s just that, sitting opposite the kid in a designer suit with the keenest mind he’s ever known, case paperwork on both their laps, it just feels right, almost like it was meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is meant to be a parallel/opposite to the Carl Powers case in Sherlock. The P.S. writers own their Sherlock Holmes references, and the show in general has a lot of parallels to Holmes as he exists in both the stories and TV adaptations. (I believe it qualifies as a just-off-Holmes-but-clearly-inspired-by-it adaptation, much like a show like House did, but that’s a long topic for another time.)
> 
> In Sherlock, Carl Powers dies in a way that is ruled accidental, but Sherlock suspects murder. No one will listen to him because he’s still a teenager at the time. My idea here was that, much like Sherlock, Malcolm’s talents would have emerged at a young age; he’s far too brilliant for them not to. However, the outcomes diverge sharply because Malcolm has Gil, a mentor and advocate, while Sherlock did not have anyone at the time.
> 
> In a general sense, aspects of P.S. play out almost like a what-if alternate reality, where a Sherlock Holmes-like character (I mean this in a very positive homage kind of way, not in a bad copying kind of way) actually grew up in an environment where someone loved and supported him in the development of his identity and abilities. It doesn’t solve everything, but it provides a sense of underlying security and confidence that Sherlock doesn’t (initially) have and has to find through Watson and his other relationships as an adult, but that Malcolm, for all of his challenges, already has. For Holmes fans, I think this is particularly satisfying to watch, because we wish Holmes hadn’t had to wait so long to find that missing piece.


	13. On Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How long?” Gil asks. Malcolm hears steel in his voice.
> 
> “Three days. Never made it to the Hamptons.”

Malcolm isn’t grounded. It’s worse than that. His mother just keeps giving him wounded looks, and that means she’s too horrified to even come up with a punishment.

Shame. His father has brought enough of that on the family. Now, it’s Malcolm’s turn. The explanation doesn’t really matter. It’s still trouble, and he’s still the cause of it.

Ainsley is pragmatic. “You hated it there now anyway. With your grades and mom’s money, you’ll still get into college. I don’t know what you’re so upset about.” 

“I missed you, too.” He shoos her out of his room and lies back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

He’d almost made it. Almost cracked the boarding school code and made it to the finish line—until the weekend in the dark that he experiences again every time he closes his eyes.

“I wish Gil was here.” Unbidden, his mind recalls the first, closed-off months when the only comforting thing in his world had been the long rides in Gil’s car. Not much talking, just the soothing security of the cop in the driver’s seat, which had anchored and reassured him like nothing else. But Gil doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about the name or the closet—or the screams that filled unoccupied hallways. 

There was a time when Malcolm had told Gil everything, but he’s becoming an adult; he has to fend for himself some time. He wants Gil to see him as the confident future profiler, the genius. Not the mess-up, the weak, the hurting kid. It’s time, Malcolm thinks, to grow up.

But growing up hurts, and it’s lonely. 

He still feels profoundly alone the next day when he drives to Gil’s and Jackie’s for his usual weekend dinner. He plans to keep everything in; they may never even know he was expelled if he plays his cards right. He’ll be an adult about everything.

Except, he overestimates himself and underestimates the Arroyos. As soon as they’ve finished dinner, Jackie suggests “a drive in Gil’s car for old times’ sake.”

“You’re being weird,” Gil says bluntly as soon as they’re in the cruiser. “Jackie noticed it, too. That’s why she sent us off.”

“I’m fine.”

“Not half,” Gil snorts back. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, but we both know you will sooner or later.”

Malcolm clenches his jaw tightly. “I can handle it, Gil.”

“Maybe,” Gil answers, “but that doesn’t mean you need to do it on your own.”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

Realization immediately precedes the statement, and Malcolm feels himself flushing: He’s not being the adult he thought he was being at all; he’s just a kid who’s afraid of letting down the one person whose approval he values most.

“You’re eighteen, kid,” Gil says softly. “I don’t expect perfection. Do you think that’s why I kept coming around after your dad’s arrest, because I thought you were perfect?”

“No, you kept coming because you’re a good person,” Malcolm answers.

“I kept coming because something about that over-serious kid with the big eyes grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. Still won’t. Perfection never had anything to do with it.”

“I got expelled, Gil. I got into a fight, and the headmaster expelled me.”

Malcolm hears Gil sigh. “Since I’m not stupid enough to think that’s all there is to it, I’m going to keep driving until you explain the context—what happened and why you did it.”

“I did it because I’m a bad kid. Just ask Headmaster Brumback.”

“Malcolm, I’m on your side,” Gil says patiently. “I know you don’t do things for no reason, so stop swimming in self-hate long enough to give me a chance to understand.”

“A few weeks ago, they found out my real name. You know that weekend I couldn’t come over because I was going to the Hamptons? I found out they knew about The Surgeon because one of them told me just before he locked me in the janitor’s closet.” Malcolm clenches his fist. It keeps trembling.

“How long?” Gil asks. Malcolm hears steel in his voice.

“Three days. Never made it to the Hamptons.”

The car suddenly swerves into the nearest parking lot, a gas station. 

“Get out.”

“Yes—Sir—“ Malcolm is nonplussed by Gil’s sudden terse vehemence, so he obeys immediately.

Gil rounds the front of the car, and Malcolm finds himself bone crushed into the cop’s embrace. “I can’t even imagine how horrible that was for you, Malcolm. I hope you gave that kid H— for it.”

“I did, Gil,” Malcolm answers from against Gil’s shoulder. “No permanent damage, but he felt it—enough to get his parents to push on the school to kick me out.”

Gil finally lets go after a very long time. “What happened to that kid? Did he get expelled too?”

“Of course not,” Malcolm answers. “He told them locking me in was an accident, and they believed it.”

“So you took matters into your own hands,” Gil supplies.

“Yeah, and I—I could have done worse, Gil. I felt like I wanted to kill him.” Malcolm looks down, not wanting to look Gil in the eyes. “Because I’m like my father.”

“Because you’re normal, kid. Everybody has those thoughts sometimes. But you didn’t kill him.”

“No, but the headmaster said that it showed that I’m like the Surgeon. Seemed like he’d been waiting three years for me to do something so he could say it.”

Gil shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have been expelled. Detention, maybe, or whatever it is they do at fancy boarding school. Do they still cane people?”

Malcolm laughs, which he knows was Gil’s goal. “No, that went out twenty years ago. But coming home to my mom with shame on the family feels worse.”

“Your mom would understand this if you’d let her in. She knows you better than you think.”

Malcolm folds his arms self-protectively. “I told myself I’d never put her through anything like what the Surgeon did.”

“And you haven’t,” Gil says firmly. “You had a good reason to be angry, and maybe you didn’t handle it perfectly, but you handled it like you’re eighteen. It’s the school’s problem that they brought your father into the mix and used him as a reason.”

Gil reaches over and opens the car door. “Let’s go home.” His hand on Malcolm’s back feels warm.

Malcolm feels practically weightless now that Gil knows. On the one hand, it doesn’t fix anything. On the other, it fixes everything that matters.

“Kid, you’re going to Harvard in the fall. Those brats will still be using their parents’ names and accomplishments, but you’ll be making a name for yourself—Malcolm Bright. You never needed that school to reach your potential.”

Malcolm doesn’t know if he believes the words, but he likes the way Gil says them. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“That part, you should be sorry about,” Gil answers, but Malcolm can see a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Just remember I’m on your side next time. And try to remember that growing up is as much about letting people in as it is trying to handle everything yourself.”

“I’ll think about it,” Malcolm says quietly, not sure he agrees, but content in his uncertainty, because uncertainty isn’t dangerous when he’s with Gil.

As Gil’s cruiser gets closer to home, Malcolm feels his apprehension returning. It’s time to face his mother again, to feel her crushing disappointment.

“Bye, Gil.” He can hear in his own voice that he sounds like a forlorn child as he gets out of the car and tries to square his shoulders.

“Good luck, kid.” Gil speeds into the night, and Malcolm takes a deep breath as he heads for the entrance.

“Son?” Jessica opens the door before Malcolm has a chance to unlock it with his key.

“Mom?” He can tell in an instant that her mood has entirely shifted from earlier. She’s energized, awake, no longer defeated and listless.

That’s when, to his surprise, Malcolm gets his second hug of the day. “Come in, sweetheart. I’m planning your Harvard party.”

“What happened?” Malcolm asks. “This morning you were ready to send me to bed without supper.”

Jessica rolls her eyes. “As if I would ever. If you must know, I called the school and threatened to pull my yearly contribution if they didn’t tell me exactly what happened—and what led up to it.”

“Oh,” Malcolm answers, nonplussed.

His mother gives him a long look. “I got the school’s version, but I can read between the lines. I’m on your side, son.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I wish you would give me a little more credit once in a while.”

“I’m sorry, mom. I should have told you the whole story.”

Jessica nods. “You can make up for it by helping me decide on party themes. I want to show the stuck up mothers of your classmates how proud I am of you.”

Malcolm sits next to her on the sofa, thinking that, as usual, Gil was probably right, and there might be a lot about adulthood that he still doesn’t understand. And maybe that’s okay; maybe there’s time to learn.


	14. Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thanks, Gil,” Malcolm finally says after a long time, pulling away.
> 
> “What for?”
> 
> “For never letting me hate myself.”

Gil has never seen Malcolm so pale since the night his father was arrested. 

“—treatable,” he hears Jackie explaining. “The doctor says he can get it in remission in a few months.”

Gil can tell Malcolm isn’t hearing any of it. He’s completely locked in his own head, and the cop remembers how terrifying that used to be. 

“Kid? Son?” He stands up when Malcolm does, weighing the idea of touching him, but Malcolm quickly heads for the door.

“I—need to go.” Gil lets him, on instinct.

“Honey, don’t you think you should go after him?” Jackie sounds near tears, so Gil sits on the sofa beside her to hug her close.

“I will in a little bit. He won’t go far.”

“I told you I wasn’t sure we should tell him right before he leaves for college,” Jackie sniffles, her usually strong exterior temporarily gone.

“It would have been just as hard whenever we did it,” Gil answers bluntly but gently at the same time. They had argued the point for days, and Gil had finally won out in favor of telling Malcolm by reminding his wife of the high likelihood that the kid would deduce it for himself if they didn’t, which they both agreed would be even worse. 

Gil gives it fifteen minutes before he kisses Jackie, relieved to see her tears fully dried, and heads out the door into the early evening. As expected, he finds Malcolm an easy walk away in the park around the corner. The kid is not crying. He’s just standing against the fence, staring, like he’s mentally far away. 

“Why Jackie?” Gil hears, so soft it’s barely audible, as he comes and stands near Malcolm. 

“I don’t know,” Gil answers.

“There are so many bad people—like my dad, or like me,” Malcolm continues softly. “Not her. She’s a good person.”

“Hey, what do you mean by that?” Gil rounds on Malcolm, forgetting his determination to go easy. “What are you doing lumping yourself in with Martin Whitly?”

“This is about Jackie, not me,” Malcolm returns, and Gil is relieved because the argumentativeness is back, which means the kid is.

“Don’t try to manipulate me, Malcolm Bright,” Gil says. “We have plenty of time to talk about Jackie, but what the heck do you mean by implying you deserve to have bad things happen to you?”

Malcolm shrugs. “I lived with my dad. I—saw things. I should have done something. The least the universe could do is punish me instead of somebody awesome.”

Gil hugs him. He’s tired, and he doesn’t know how to say what he’s tried to say a thousand times, so he talks with his hands. “The thing we agree on,” he says, “is that Jackie is awesome.” Malcolm doesn’t return the hug, but he also doesn’t resist it, exactly as Gil expected. Malcolm is always a sponge when it comes to affection, even when he’s upset. Dr. Whitly—they said in court—had been a very affectionate father, and it was as if Malcolm had been trying to fill that void ever since.

“Thanks, Gil,” Malcolm finally says after a long time, pulling away.

“What for?”

“For never letting me hate myself.”

Gil nods, and he cups the side of the kid’s face. “Malcolm, Jackie needs us both. The first thing she said when she got the news from the doctor is that she was glad she has us—both of us. Do you really think she would have that high an opinion of you if you didn’t deserve it?”

Malcolm slowly shakes his head no, to Gil’s satisfaction. It might not always work, but he’d rightly judged that he could trip up Malcolm’s logic with an appeal to his respect for Jackie’s judgment.

“Now, let’s go back home and have dinner,” Gil says, hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Let’s be the guys Jackie needs.”

Detachment, something Gil has never had, might have its attractions at times, but nothing beats being fully present for the shimmering raindrop moments of that evening—watching Malcolm try to be strong for Jackie; watching Jackie try to be strong for him—not knowing what the future contains, but surrounded by the love that fills the present to overflowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not pulling timeline shenanigans; I’m having Jackie get cancer once & beat it before the final time (which is common).
> 
> I actually appreciate that the show has left Jackie’s illness and passing as an understated thing in the past that we can imagine for ourselves, but it had to be emotionally cataclysmic for both Gil and Malcolm. 
> 
> I am a cancer survivor. When I write about cancer, it’s not in any way to make light of such a heavy issue. I do think Jackie’s life & passing had a huge impact on Malcolm’s development that the writers haven’t (yet) actually shown us, and I would like to explore that.
> 
> Another note: Teenagers are unavoidably self-centered. As an older teenager at this point in the story, Malcolm is able to have a more adult perspective and choose to be there for Jackie (and Gil), but it’s still on brand for his age for him to need to figure out what all of this means to him personally first, and I think Jackie and Gil would understand that.
> 
> Finally, if you write in this universe, do Malcolm and Gil ever surprise you? They went places in this chapter that I hadn’t planned and wasn’t expecting...

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I am not sure where this story is going to end up, or even whether anyone else will find it interesting. I may jump around in time. The plan is to explore pivotal moments along the relationship timeline of Malcolm and Gil. This will stay canon compliant (as much as possible pending future info), and it will involve other characters and dynamics as they intersect with this relationship.


End file.
